For a year, Lauren sends messages to her late father’s phone, sharing her thoughts and feelings. Then one day, she gets a reply. At first, it’s shocking, but it soon turns into something unexpected—a bond between two strangers. Maybe some messages do find their way home.

Grief is strange.

It doesn’t just disappear. It stays in the quiet moments, in the empty spaces of a home that once felt alive. And it lingers in the habit of wanting to call someone who’s no longer there.

For me, grief lived in my phone.

Grief lived in that little phone—the same device that once made me happy but now only brought pain.

When my mom passed away, I was eleven. After that, my dad became my whole world. He showed love in small, quiet ways—like making Mickey Mouse-shaped pancakes, buying me slushies from the gas station after a long day, and taking me on peaceful Sunday morning fishing trips.

But he also showed love in big, loud ways. On the anniversary of my mom’s death, he threw a pool party for all my friends.

“Dad, you don’t have to do this,” I said, watching him shape burger patties by hand.

“I do, Lo,” he replied, using my nickname. He always said ‘Lauren’ sounded too grown-up for me and that I’d grow into it one day.

“I need this as much as you do, love,” he said, sprinkling black pepper over the meat. “We always get too sad on this day, but your mom wasn’t a sad person. She made everything brighter, didn’t she?”

She did. Of course, she did. She was like the sun.

“So,” my dad said, “we have to live like the sun is shining just for us.”

After that, we did our best to keep living, not letting grief weigh us down too much. But we still made space for it—especially on our fishing trips.

“Out here, kiddo,” he’d say, reeling in his line, “it’s just us and the fish. No worries, no outside world. Just you, me, and the water.”

Even now, I can still hear his voice—clear and warm—just like the sunrise over the dock.

And then, a little over a year ago, a stroke took him from me.

It happened so fast. So unfair.

One day, I went to the dock where we used to fish and sat on the grass. I couldn’t believe this was my life now. I was an orphan. More than anything, I just wanted my parents back.

I sat there for a while, eating a slice of apple pie—something we always did on our fishing trips.

And in that quiet moment, I started texting my dad’s number.

It felt just like the times I used to call him on my way home from school. Like when I needed advice or just wanted to hear one of his terrible dad jokes.

You wouldn’t believe how bad my roommate’s cooking is. She set spaghetti on fire last night. How is that even possible?!

I got my first B in college, Dad. I know, I know—you’d say, ‘B for better next time,’ right? I really miss your corny jokes.

Some guy tried to mansplain fishing to me today. So I showed him our picture with that huge bass from 2016. You should’ve seen his face. Priceless.

It was ridiculous. I felt ridiculous. I was texting a number that wasn’t even his anymore. But somehow, it made me feel like he was still there. Like if I just kept talking into the silence, maybe some part of him could hear me.

On the anniversary of his death, I sat in the clinic’s waiting room and sent three messages, never expecting a reply.

Dad, I miss you so much.

It’s been a year since you left, and I still can’t stop texting you.

I know it sounds crazy, but it feels like you’re still listening.

My chest ached, and I wanted to cry for hours. Where was the happiness? When would the world feel bright again? When would this pain stop?

I sat there, waiting. The silence felt heavy, crushing.

Then my phone beeped. I nearly jumped out of my chair.

You’re not crazy.

I froze. My stomach twisted in a way that wasn’t quite fear, wasn’t quite hope—just something overwhelming and impossible. My heart pounded so hard I could hear it.

I felt sick.

Dad???

Just then, the nurse called my name.

“Lauren! Come on, sweetie, it’s your turn.”

I jumped up, nearly dropping my phone, my heart pounding in my chest. The clinic smelled like antiseptic and overly clean hallways as I followed the nurse inside. Everything felt distant, like I was moving through a dream.

The doctor walked in, smiling.

“Lauren,” he greeted me warmly.

He was middle-aged, with kind eyes and a gentle smile. I nodded, barely hearing him as he went through my routine check-up. My head was spinning, my body felt light, and I wasn’t sure if I had imagined the whole thing.

How could my dad have replied to a text? Was Heaven sending messages now? Had I just witnessed some kind of miracle?

Had Dad somehow, impossibly, reached back to me?

No. That was crazy. I had to be losing my mind. The grief must have finally taken over.

The doctor excused himself to grab some equipment.

“Sorry, Lauren,” he said. “Not sure why the nurse didn’t bring the machines in. Give me a second—I need to check your blood pressure.”

Left alone, I stared at my phone, my fingers hovering over the screen.

I had to know. I just had to.

Dad, are you alive??

A soft ding echoed in the room.

I looked up. The doctor’s phone on his desk lit up.

That couldn’t be a coincidence… right?

“Just take a quick look, Lauren,” I muttered to myself.

I leaned in—and there it was. My message. On his screen.

The world spun. My stomach twisted.

I sent a bunch of random emojis to my dad’s number.

Seconds later, they popped up on the doctor’s phone.

I bolted.

Racing down the hallway, my breath came in sharp, uneven gasps. The walls blurred around me as panic clawed at my throat.

Who was he? Was he even a doctor? A stalker? Someone playing a cruel joke?

Had this man been watching me all along?

Outside, I braced my hands on my knees, leaning against the wall for support. I tried to catch my breath, but the nausea wouldn’t go away.

Hours later, back in my apartment, I clung to my bed, still shaken. My phone buzzed.

I almost ignored it—until I saw the message.

I’m so sorry I didn’t reply earlier. I was at work. Listen, I need to tell you—I’m not your father. I got this number recently, and I guess it used to belong to him. I’m really sorry for your loss.

I read your messages. All of them. At first, I didn’t know what to do. But then… I started looking forward to them. You reminded me that I wasn’t alone either. I lost my daughter four years ago.

Natalie. She used to text her mom and me about everything when she was in college too.

I didn’t mean to scare or hurt you. I just wanted you to know—you’re not crazy. And you’re not alone. Your father had a kind and loving daughter with a beautiful soul. But I can see your pain.

If you ever need anything, anytime, reach out to me.

My vision blurred. The tight knot in my chest—one I hadn’t even realized was there—started to loosen.

This man hadn’t been messing with me. It was just a coincidence. A strange, unbelievable coincidence.

I decided to reply.

You scared me. Oh my goodness.

I know! I’m sorry! he texted back. I had a patient, and I couldn’t use my phone.

Yeah, I know, I typed. Her name was Lauren, and you were about to check her blood pressure.

Silence. No typing bubbles.

How do you know that? Now I’m feeling uncomfortable!

I actually laughed to myself.

Because it was me. I ran out when I saw my messages pop up on your phone. It scared me, and I panicked.

Another pause. Then—my phone rang.

His voice was steady, but there was something raw and unfiltered in it.

“I never meant for you to find out this way,” he said. “But I think fate had other plans. Honestly, I wasn’t sure if I wanted you to know at all.”

And just like that, we were talking. About my dad, his daughter, and grief. We talked about loss and the strange ways the universe brought people together.

By the end of the call, I felt lighter, like some of the weight had been shared with someone who truly understood loss.

“Um, Lauren,” he said. “You should probably come back so we can finish your check-up.”

I laughed.

“I will,” I replied. “Thank you, Henry, for letting me talk about my father. On the phone, and through all those texts.”

“Anytime, kiddo,” he chuckled softly. “But I have to know—how did your roommate set fire to spaghetti? That’s one of the best texts I’ve ever gotten.”

We made plans to meet at a diner the following week.

“Lauren, we’re supposed to be doing your check-up, not eating greasy food,” he teased.

“Henry, I need a pick-me-up,” I laughed. “You can schedule me in before my final exams. In about a week.”

“Fine,” he agreed. “Now, order whatever you want. My treat.”

We sat there for hours, sipping milkshakes, eating fries, and finishing off with a slice of apple pie.

Suddenly, things seemed brighter. I didn’t feel as alone. My heart still ached for my parents, but Henry was starting to fill some of that emptiness. He told me about his daughter and how much she loved burgers.

“Seriously, Lo,” he laughed. “Nat would probably have sold her soul for a good burger.”

By the end of the night, he promised to introduce me to his wife.

“Margot will adore you,” he said simply.

And just like that, a little bit of joy found its way back into my life.